Brigitte blushed and looked away. “You may forget your dream sooner if we do not speak of it anymore.”
“It’s already forgotten,” he smiled, running a finger along her bare arm.
Brigitte moved away. “Rowland—
“No!” He threw an arm over her waist to keep her beside him, but her eyes widened in panic. He sighed. “Ah, Brigitte, let your feelings guide you.”
“I am!” she cried.
Rowland forced her down on the bed and leaned over her, whispering, “You lie, little jewel. You do not at all mind my attentions. If you would only be honest, you would admit you like it when I do this.” He kissed her neck. “And this.” He gently kneaded a breast beneath the thin linen shift. “And this.” His mouth came down on hers, sweetly teasing. “And—”
“No!” She caught his hand before it reached the mound between her legs. “Stop!”
His eyes smoldered with desire as he looked down at her, and she caught his face between her hands, “Rowland, please. Do not ruin everything.”
“Ruin?”
Despite her efforts to hold him back, he kissed her again, passionately this time. But then he released her abruptly and sat up.
“The only thing I would like to ruin is your determination to stay unmoved by me, but I know you wish to keep up that pretense.”
Brigitte said nothing to that, for something had stirred within her when his lips seared hers. Did he sense it? Was he aware that, if he had continued to kiss her, she would not have protested again? She was, in fact, disappointed that he had given up so easily. What was wrong with her? Had she turned wanton without realizing it?
“You are not angry with me?” she asked hesitantly, praying he was not.
“Not angry. Disappointed and more than a little frustrated, but not angry. I suppose I must give you time to get used to me.”
“You are so generous, milord,” she said caustically, now as frustrated as he. “Continue to give me time, and I will be gone before your patience runs out.”
Too late she realized what she had said, and she blushed crimson and began to stammer, but his burst of laughter drowned her out.
“So! It seems I spite us both with my patience, eh?”
“No, Rowland,” Brigitte denied quickly. “You misunderstood.”
“I think not.” He smiled knowingly.
He reached for her, but she scrambled off the bed from the side away from him and ran to quickly don her clothes. Straightening her yellow tunic, she glanced over hesitantly to find him still sitting on the bed, shaking his head.
Reaching for his clothes, he said, “Very well. But one day you will learn that the relationship between man and wife is a most intimate one, and not only once in a while.” He paused, then added softly, “We could be just as intimate.”
“Do you offer me marriage?”
He stared at her so intently and for such a long time that she grew nervous. “Would you accept?”
“I…”
She frowned in consternation. The impulse to throw caution to the wind and say yes was strong. But she quickly subdued herself.
“Well?”
“Of course I would not accept,” she answered adamantly.
Rowland shrugged. “Then there is no need for me to make the offer, is there?”
Brigitte turned away from him, thoroughly hurt. He did not really care. Marriage meant nothing to him. Perhaps she meant nothing to him.
She walked stiffly to the door and turned to Wolff, snapping her fingers for him to follow, and then she left the room without waiting for Rowland. Oh, why had she allowed him to talk her into staying in his room?
Damn the man! There was no in-between with him. Either he kept his emotions hidden, or he let them explode in a blind rage. What were his true feelings for her? Would he miss her when she was gone? She hardly dared ask herself what the answer was.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Riding in the crisp morning air with Rowland was invigorating. The weather had not warmed, and Brigitte’s cheeks were pink from the cold wind slapping at her face, but she enjoyed the ride and let it lighten her mood.
It was late morning when they returned to the manor. Rowland stayed in the stable for a while, and Brigitte went alone to his room. She sat there sewing, and brooding.
When the door opened, Brigitte was relieved to have her troubled thoughts interrupted. But then she saw that it was not Rowland but Roger of Mezidon who entered the room as if it were his own. Closing the door, he crossed the room and stood a few feet away from where she sat. Brigitte was more than a little surprised and tried to think of some reason for his being there, but there was no reason beyond what Rowland had warned her about. As Roger’s blue eyes raked over her, she realized how right Rowland had been.
“You are every bit as lovely as I remembered,” he said smoothly.
His flattery made Brigitte uneasy. “You should not be here, Sir Roger.”
“Ah, and well I know it.”
“Then why—”
“Your name is Brigitte,” he interrupted, taking a step closer. “An old Frankish name—it suits you. I have been told much about you.”
She did not like his confident attitude or his familiarity. “I am not interested in what you have been told,” she said sharply, glad that Wolff was lying under Rowland’s bed.
“Your tone wounds me, damosel. I suppose Rowland has warned you against me?”
“He thinks you have set your eye on me and have rape on your mind.”
“Ah, damosel, why do you say such a thing? It need not be so.”
Brigitte came to her feet instantly, alarmed. “Are you saying Rowland is right?”
Roger was close enough to reach out and run a finger along the soft line of her cheek. “I am here,” he grinned in answer, and then chuckled when she flinched. “I searched long for you last night, until I finally realized that Rowland would not let such a prize stay far from his reach. He is indeed lucky, but now it’s time I shared some of his luck.”
“You will not touch me!” Brigitte snapped.
But Roger was not put off. He reached for her, and she slapped his hand away. Instantly his other hand came around and grabbed her neck. Before she could scream, Roger’s mouth covered hers.
Brigitte was stunned and slow to react. Roger’s kiss was not unpleasant, but it did not move her, either. If she had felt the trembling in her knees, the rapid swirling in her belly, or even just a little tingling sensation, she might have let the kiss go on, grateful to learn that Rowland was not the only one who could move her. But that was not the case, and at last she tried to push Roger away. He only held her more firmly, both hands gripping her head to keep her lips pressed to his.
Brigitte did not panic. The long needle she still held in her hand, thread attached, was just what she needed. Quickly she jabbed the point into Roger’s arm. She had not anticipated such a startled reaction. He jumped back, and the needle tore through the cotton of his long-sleeved tunic and ripped a crimson line down his arm.
They were both mesmerized for a moment by the flow of blood. Then Roger’s eyes jerked back to hers, and she cringed at the anger there. In that moment, Brigitte could well imagine Roger using dishonorable means to kill a man. There was something evil about him. She moved back quickly and put the high-backed chair between them.
“There is no need to run from me, damosel.” The dark scowl on his face belied his soft tone. “You have only pricked me. Your nails would do far more damage…and I vow I will give you a chance to use them.”
“You have made a mistake here, Sir Roger. Rowland will kill you for this.”
He quirked a brow at her. “And will you tell him? Will you dare to confess that I have had you? Do you think he will want you after knowing that?”
“Do you think you will be alive to find that out?” she countered. “Rowland will take advantage of the slightest reason to challenge you. Are you not aware of how desperately he wants to kill you? I do not know exac
tly why, but I am quite sure now that you are deserving of his hate.”
“Little bitch!” Roger hissed.
He started around the chair, and, without thinking, Brigitte screamed for Wolff. The great beast scrambled out from under the bed and leaped into the air, knocking Roger flat on his back. Wolff went for Roger’s throat, and it was all the big man could do to hold him back.
“Call this monster off! For God’s sake, woman! Call him off!”
Brigitte hesitated long enough to terrify Roger, then reluctantly called Wolff to her. He obeyed. She knelt down to praise him, keeping a wary eye on Roger as he rose slowly.
He shot her an incredulous look. “You are mad to set that monster on me. He could have killed me!”
“Oh, yes, he could have easily,” Brigitte replied with a bit of malice. “Maybe I should have let him. He has killed men before who have tried to attack me. I have no doubt he enjoyed it, too. He is entirely wild, you see.”
“Jesus! You are as pagan as Rowland is!”
“And what are you, noble lord?” she returned contemptuously. “Did you not come in here to assault me? I suppose you see no harm in tumbling a mere servant, eh? Swine!” she spat furiously.
“You dare much, vixen,” he growled, his eyes glowing dangerously.
“Do I?” she laughed harshly, no longer afraid of him. “I dare because my breeding demands that I dare. You say you were told about me? Well, you were misinformed, for no one here knows what I am. I am Lady Brigitte de Louroux of Berry, daughter of the late Baron de Louroux, ward now of the Count of Berry, and heir of Louroux and all it encompasses.”
“You could not wait to tell him that, could you?”
Roger and Brigitte both turned with a start to see Rowland standing in the open doorway, an unreadable expression on his face.
“If you have been standing there long enough, Rowland, then you know I was simply explaining to Sir Roger why I can be so bold as to call him a swine.”
She said this so calmly and so simply that Rowland burst into laughter.
“Does she speak the truth, Rowland?” Roger demanded. “Is she of noble birth?”
Rowland’s answer made Brigitte gasp.
“She is all she says she is.”
“Then why is she pretending to be a servant? It’s outrageous!”
“Are you outraged, Roger?” Rowland asked smoothly as he walked slowly into the room. “Do you wish to challenge me for the lady’s honor?”
Roger hesitated, avoiding Rowland’s penetrating stare. Brigitte thought he paled a little. Rowland was not as calm as he appeared. He was like a stalking beast. There was no fear in him, only anticipation. He wanted Roger to challenge him—he was desperate for it.
“Roger?”
“I will not challenge you, Rowland, not here in your home. I am aware that you feel you have a moral right to kill me. Rage will give you added strength. Yet you are wrong about me, Rowland.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Nevertheless, I am not fool enough to fight you now. I was simply curious to know why the lady is here under false pretenses.”
Brigitte spoke up impulsively. “That is none of your concern, Sir Roger.”
“Well put, Brigitte,” Rowland said, his voice cold. “But should we not enlighten my good friend here? After all, he is entitled to more for his efforts than just that scratch on his arm.” Rowland stared intently at Roger, his eyes unyielding. “And how did you come by that scratch, Roger? Can it be my lady was forced to defend herself? Is that why she called you a swine?”
Brigitte moved quickly between the two men. “Rowland, stop it. I know what you are leading up to, but I warned you not to use me this way.”
“You were upset when I walked in here,” he reminded her sharply. “Why?”
“I was offended by Sir Roger’s attitude—it so resembled your own,” she said pointedly, and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.
Roger drew her attention with an eloquent bow. “If I had known you were a lady, damosel, I would never have offended you.”
“That is no excuse, Sir Roger,” Brigitte replied coldly.
“Get out, Roger!” Rowland growled, his eyes stormy. “I will deal with you later if my lady has not an innocent explanation for why she drew your blood. For now, I shall only warn you never to come near her again.”
Roger left quickly.
Brigitte was furious with Rowland for attempting to use her as an excuse to kill a man. “My lady, is it? Since when am I your lady?” she demanded as soon as Roger closed the door. “Do you at last believe me, or was that simply for his benefit?”
“You will answer my question first, Brigitte!”
“I will not!” she cried, a stubborn tilt to her chin.
Rowland looked away. “Very well. Yes, I said that for his benefit. Would you rather have had me call you a liar in front of him?”
“I would rather your motive was not so loathsome,” she replied, disappointed. “You hoped he would challenge you so you could fight him.”
“I do not deny that!” he returned crisply, his dark eyes locking with hers. “When I saw him with you, I wanted to tear him apart. Yet I did not want you to feel that you had anything to do with his death. If he had challenged me, he alone would be responsible.”
“Rowland, you make too much of this,” she said, becoming exasperated. “He simply kissed me, and for that he got what he deserved.”
Rowland turned around, heading for the door, and Brigitte called to him, “Rowland! I am glad he kissed me!”
He halted, stood still a moment, and turned slowly to face her. “Did you encourage him?” Rowland asked softly.
“No.”
“Yet you welcomed his kiss.”
“If I had welcomed it, would I have stopped him?” she cried. “I said only that I was glad it happened. You see, it proved something to me.”
“What?”
She lowered her eyes and whispered in a barely audible voice, “It did not move me.”
That told Rowland more than a thousand words would have done. He understood. He alone had the ability to move her. Roger did not. Perhaps no other man could move her. And that she should admit this.
He moved slowly to her, cupped her face in his hands, and gently kissed her. Her knees went weak, the pit of her belly swirled, her body tingled. And when he lifted her in his arms and carried her to his bed, she did not protest. His will and hers were one.
She wanted this man. And as he removed her gown, tearing it in his impatience to press his bare skin to hers, that was all she could think about, how very much she wanted him. A fine, strong man, a gentle man, a violent, vengeful man, he was the only man she wanted to hold in her arms, to caress, to savor. And as he made her move to his rhythm, as he brought her to those glorious ecstatic heights, she wondered fleetingly if she had fallen in love with Rowland of Montville.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The day began with a bright sun, an occasion to cause good cheer these cold days. After Rowland left the hall for the morning exercises and drills in the courtyard, Brigitte sought out Goda and found her in the storeroom, skinning a rabbit for a later meal.
“I could use your help if you are willing, Goda,” Brigitte ventured, sitting down on the bench next to the girl. “Rowland insists I quit sewing for him for a while, and make a gown for myself. But I need help in cutting the material.”
“I will be happy to, mistress, as soon as I finish here. Lady Hedda set this task for me, and I do not dare leave until I have done.”
At the mention of Rowland’s stepmother, Brigitte’s long-suppressed curiosity rose. “Does Hedda hate Rowland? He has told me so, but I find it hard to believe.”
“Oh, to be sure. It has always been so. Sir Rowland has had a hard life here. It’s so sad to think of him as a child, and all he suffered here.”
“Tell me about him as a child. You were here?”
“I was too young to serve in the manor then, but my
mother did. Oh, the stories she would bring home to the village. At the time, I truly thought she invented those stories just to frighten me into being good. I was horrified later to learn that they were true.”
“What stories?”
“Of how the poor little boy was treated by Lady Hedda,” Goda replied, then fell silent as she discarded the skin and reached for a chopping knife.
“Well?” Brigitte asked impatiently. “Do not stop there.”
Goda looked about nervously before she answered. “Lady Hedda beat him terribly at every opportunity, and did not even look for a reason when Lord Luthor was not around. Ilse and Lady Brenda were just like their mother, if not worse. One day Lady Brenda was found beating him with a whip, and the boy was bloody and unconscious, yet she continued to beat him.”
“Why?” Brigitte gasped.
“He dared to call Lady Brenda sister.”
“My God!”
Goda smiled weakly, understanding. “He had a hard life here, and nothing else. Once he grew strong enough to protect himself from the ladies, then he had his father to deal with. And my Lord Luthor is the hardest taskmaster there is. If Rowland did not learn quickly the skills Lord Luthor taught him, he would receive terrible blows for his failure. And then there were the older boys here to contend with.”
Brigitte fell silent as she watched Goda working. A sadness overcame her as she considered Rowland’s terrible life. Her heart went out to the little boy who had been so mistreated. She could appreciate all the more now the gentle side of Rowland that she had come to know. It was remarkable that he had learned any tenderness at all.
A little later Brigitte moved across the hall with Goda beside her, looking forward to cutting the material for her new clothes. Brigitte was so lost in her thoughts that she and Goda reached the stairs leading to the second floor without realizing it. But the strident voice that cut into those thoughts halted their steps.
“Where do you think you are off to?”
Goda, at Brigitte’s side, had a look of dread on her face. Brigitte turned to see Hedda stomping toward the stairs. Ilse was behind her, as were Amelia and Ilse’s lady’s maid.
So Speaks the Heart Page 17